the river bank an' the floom. An' he
couldn't go back, nor I couldn't go with him. He's slep' on the cender,
nice; all's a cradle to Nobby.'

'Yes, cinder's a good bed, when the eyes are shut,' said the girl,
bitterly. 'The coffee was smoking hot when I started, but it's cold out
this morning, so there's all this to be done over.'

'Yes, outdoors has cooled it. The world was hungry, like, an' wanted to
eat it. Small nubbin' for all the world, but it stole the hot an' the
smell o' the meat.'

The girl did not reply to this bit of pleasantry. She was about
eighteen, and her face would have been strikingly pretty except for the
eager, hungering look of the eye; but in every motion, every look, and
even the way in which she wore her neat and simple clothing, there was
the word 'unsatisfied.'

Finally, she brought coffee and meat to him.

'Here, Net, take ye a sip,' said he; ''twill warm ye nice. Shiverin' yet
she is; 'deed the mornin's clammy cold; there's naw love in thet. Drink!
I cawnt take ye home so, an' my time's most up; it's gettin' light.'

But she refused it, and sat and watched him as he ate, never taking her
eyes from his face.

'Father,' she presently said, 'what do you do here?'

The old stoker laughed: 'Do, my girl? Why, keep up the fires. It's like
I'm a spoke in a wheel or summut. I keeps the fires, an' the fires makes
the angeen go, an' thet turns the works thet makes the pistols, so't
folks may kill theirsel's. There's naw peace anywheres in the world.'

'I didn't mean that; but what do you do the rest of the time? Don't you
think? Aren't you tired of this place, father?'

'Sometimes it's like I think so; but how's the use, my Net? Here's
rough, an' here's rough too,' touching his chest. 'On smooth floors,
such as I couldn't work, if we could get there. How's the use o' bein'
tired? We've got to keep steady at summut. It's best to be content, like
Nobby there; cender's as good a bed as the king's got.'

'Well, if you _were_ tired, you're going to rest now, so I wish you
were.'

'What's that mean?'

'You've got through here, that's all,' cried the girl, with a smothered
sob.

He set down his pot of coffee and his pail: 'Who told ye so?' he
demanded.

'Margery Eames.'

Catching the girl's hand, the old man half dragged her through the
opening into a yard devoted to coal storage. Picking their way through
the spotted mire, they entered a shed where trip hammers were pounding
in showers